Reflection+-+Mental+Morsels

Submit your reflections to this page. Indicate any text features you want and then placed a solid line at the bottom of your submission. be sure to include your name. Summer Institute 2009

 Morning at Botanica

 Nancy Sturm  The coolness in the post rain morning air speaks of May rather than July 2, the actual date. After a week of temperatures ranging from 98 to 101 degrees with 60-80% humidity, the cool air refreshes and invigorates me. I sit beside a pond at Botanica and soak in the coolness and the beauty around me.

 To my left, so close I could touch its needles, grows a blue aspen cedar, its gray-blue needles contrasting with a palette of greens surrounding it. I sit on a black wrought-iron chair at the edge of a wooden, man-made pavilion. Downhill, 20 yards away lies a serene pond 30 to 40 yards long and twenty feet wide. Massive cattails tower seven feet above the duckweed coated water.

 A hint of a breeze tousles the top branches of a huge weeping willow, its lower most branches dipping down to the water’s edge as if to drink. All around the pond, harmonious greens of willow, spruce, oak, hawthorn, and maple sing silently of the beauty and variety of God’s created world. Just to my right, water shooting into a small man-made pond sings the melody of this song of praise, the shrill cries of the birds chiming in an occasional solo. The pond, probably 10 by 20 feet, is bordered by flat limestone rocks.

 Beneath its surface, dark on a cloudy day, flit 18 inch long goldfish, white, black, gold, and orange flashes of brilliance. Lilly pads cover half the surface of the water. One type stretches its two foot wide bowl-like leaves high above the water, reaching for the sun. One creamy, cup-like white flower completes this setting. The other lily leaves, smaller and glossier, hug the water. Their colors vary, from a solid grass-green to green mottled with white streaks. Others wear pink overcoats, nearly covering their mottled leaves. Several large yellow buds poke their heads out of the water peeking at their neighbors. Other lilies, wide open, proudly display white, spiky petals surrounding a flashy golden center.

 On the rocks at the side of this serene beauty sits the bronze statue of a little girl, elbow on her knee, chin resting in her hand. A slight smile turns up the corners of her lips. Her eyes gaze across the pond with a faraway look.

 How fortunate she is, I think,  to sit forever in such a lovely place without a care in the world.

 She appears to contemplate the world in all its beauty and the majesty of our omnipotent God. How I wish to see the world through her eyes, always seeing its beauty, always acknowledging my creator. I linger for a few more precious moments, drinking in the beautiful scene, then I walk away. I am not a frozen bronze statue; I must walk the paths of life, only occasionally lingering by the placid pond. I store the beauty and majesty of this place in my mind, ready to replenish me as I continue roaming my pathways with God.

Lessons from the Water Nancy Sturm I love the gurgling: the sound water makes as it flows over rocks, then falls, splashing, singing into a pool, a pool of self, of more water. The nearby man-made stream sings its way downhill, gleefully passing mounds of variegated and blue-leaf hostas, Boston ferns and tall, spiky green and yellow leriope. //Why//, I wonder, //does water always sing such a merry song?// This stream rushes, falls, rests momentarily, then rushes again, splitting into two paths, both eventually falling, falling with that joyful gurgling into the small pond. Water, although made of many atoms, is one entity. One can’t pick up a piece of water. It’s impossible to set two parts of water together and still have two as one would with two apples or two slices of bread. If two bodies of water sit side by side without a container to separate them, they will join together and become one body. Maybe that’s why water sings! It operates as one unit, not as separate individuals. No one piece of water is screaming for attention: “Look at me! I can run down this hillside and jump over rocks. I can create lovely splashing music. Look at me! Aren’t I special?” It’s impossible to determine which water in this stream performs each function because the water works together as one body. Isn’t this how mankind is supposed to function? No one person clamors for attention: “Look at me! I gurgle! Aren’t I special? Look at me, I fall over rocks! Isn’t that great?” How wonderful it would be if each person did his own part, running together harmoniously, gurgling together, at times separating into two or more branches, but eventually falling over the rocks and splashing into the same pool. _

__ This I Believe Jennifer Wolff

Twenty years ago, I avoided churchwomen’s groups as if they were lima beans. Then I married a pastor, making that resolve more difficult. “OK, I’ll go to the meetings, but I won’t be a leader.”… “OK, I’ll be the secretary, but not the president.”… ”OK, I’ll go to the zone meeting, but I’ll sit in the back.”… “OK, I’ll be in charge of the Banner Committee; it’s not that significant.” What a slippery slope! What a wonderful adventure!

We were transplanted into a small western Kansas town, where my husband would begin his path of pastoring. Married only one year, I was a new, stay-at-home mom, perfectly content to change diapers, nurse my baby, rock her, and sit, watching her grow. My world was small, but complete. A short year later, a phone call changed everything.

“Hi, Jennifer. It’s Donna. Would you consider chairing the District Mission Projects Committee?” I reviewed all the reasons I was a most unlikely choice, (including the detail that until recently I was not even aware there was such a thing) but soon after, “Chairman” followed my name on the letterhead. My compact world grew to include a network around Kansas. The 50 states, Africa, and India were no longer places in an atlas; the people I met gave faces to those locations. Along with those relationships, I was responsible for investigating, proposing, and paying out grants, and for managing funds substantially more than our household budget.

Over the years, “Chairman” gave way to “Vice President” and the newly created position of “District Planner.” I learned to facilitate workshops, lead conventions, train leaders, and travel far beyond my comfort zone, geographically and personally. Still a stay-at-home mom, my world and my understanding of who I was grew exponentially.

I am confident that, like me, each person has value and has been created with unique gifts and abilities. Sometimes, maybe more often than not, the potential lies undiscovered or dormant, waiting to be developed. I believe the One who gives the gifts also supplies the situations in which we can grow. God provides far greater opportunities for us than we can create or even imagine for ourselves. We need to wait and be ready for the next surprise He has planned.

“Botanical Balm”

By Jeff H. Roper

I’m sitting on a large old wooden deck, listening to small amounts of water steadily flow through a flat rock. Birds sing and cackle all around me. I feel the warming rays of the sun. All is right with the world.

The first time I looked at all of the lovely flowers along the sidewalk arriving at this place, it reminded me to go home after this closing ceremony and pull the weeds in my landscaping at home. That made me think of my things to do list, which should more rightfully be referred to as my wife’s “honey-do” list. That reminds me that August is right around the corner. The first day of school lurches; it sits like a cougar on a high perch, ready at any moment to pounce on me, the unsuspecting amnesia-prone teacher.

Just below my feet on this deck are nice round slightly-green lily pads. Each one is a little bigger than a Mexican tortilla. On the pond itself I spot some beautiful white flowers with yellow in the middle—an orchid of sorts, perhaps. The thin white leaves look like little bright white fingers reaching upward. The sun breaks through the clouds, and it warms up this sixty-eight degree morning. We had a thunderstorm come through earlier this morning, lowering the temperature to a perfect July 2nd day. The sun retreats again behind a full bank of clouds like a kid trying to get twenty more minutes of sleep before school—underneath those thick covers on a cold winter snowy day.

Below the surface of the water are huge Japanese white, orange, and combinations of those colors goldfish. Let’s just say that those guys don’t miss a meal from their groundskeepers. Some of the lily pads have a purplish color. I look for frogs on or near these pads; they don’t seem to be around.

The regular sound of the water from the stone wall, jettisoning onto the still pond below, restores my soul. Nearby is a blue spruce tree that is tall, but has many empty spaces among its branches. On the other side of the pond is a mammoth weeping willow tree, both tall and wide—it probably would have inspired Victorians to become emotional. A real tear jerker. I can imagine Thomas Hardy being utterly depressed looking at that willow, not seeing any hopeful darkling thrushes.

A month ago I read C.S. Lewis’ book //The Problem of Pain//. He brings up the age old question for “thinking” Christians—if God is all powerful and all-knowing and all-loving, then why is there unavoidable pain and suffering in the world? The theodicy question. Why do willow trees remind us of tears streaming a person’s face? I don’t have any good, easy answers to why there is unavoidable suffering in the world.

I have been pretty fortunate in the pain and suffering world. I’m healthy. Both of my parents are still alive. Nevertheless, I have known and cared for many students and young people who have suffered individually—experiencing cancer—or they have had loved ones die unexpectantly. I don’t have good answers as to the why or purpose of this suffering or grief. I do know by my faith that God is with us in that suffering. We need to look no farther than the cross for evidence of God’s presence during suffering. Jesus is with us in our sufferings.

Maybe I need to realize that God is with me in my financial woes. As I suffer the stress of a lack of money, Jesus is with me. I need to take the longer view. By having the joy of following God in front of me, I can endure the short term frustrations of lack of money and piling debts. In the end I will be released from a world requiring money. Instead, I can sit in the light at the feet of a pond, look at the beautiful goldfish, admire the gaps on a blue spruce, ponder the nature of a willow tree, but weep no more. By Amanda L. Carter
 * Home**

It’s so peaceful – the place inside…that I see. It’s like all the goodness of my childhood and all the hopes for my future wrapped into one simple spot: home. Not the home I live in now nor the home I grew up in. I’m not even sure it’ll be the home of my future. What I do know is that it’s the home of my heart. Every molecule of that place thrums with the hopes, dreams, and wishes my parents have for me: it’s their gift to me as their daughter…their blood…the reproduction of the best of them…their legacy: a place of peace; a home in the country; a quiet, slow-tempo-ed haven; a hope earned, and therefore cherished as the unique sum of life – the pinnacle, the reason, the motivation, the be all and end all of our purpose…home.

Home resides under the protective limbs of a hearty beech tree. I… or I should say “we” – as I am my mother and father and I, three in one – a holy trinity…we take a deep breath and smell the warmth of photosynthesis, drying soil, and summer. Diamonds of light shower our face through the leaves, while a warm breeze caresses our body and soft grass cushions our languid head. Sweat-beads drip down the side of a cool glass of Arnold Palmer, my dad’s favorite drink – the same drink my eldest brother orders more than occasionally, being another of dad. My brothers and I, the three of us, are one through them. Three likenesses of two - two made one through marriage, through love.

As our mind wanders and our breath evens, the shadow of the tree grows, stretching across our body, our land, our home. There is satisfaction in our heart for having completed a menial, but difficult task – one that made us sweat and ache, maybe even swear, but a task so fundamentally right, so fundamentally needing to be done, that satisfaction in completing it, makes the toil well worth it. Feel it. My DAD gave that to me.

We turn our head to revel in the beauty surrounding the one of us. Purple and yellow viola petals flutter in the breeze: my mother’s favorite flowers. Sown there by our hand and cared for with her enjoyment of them always in mind, a simple pleasure. Later, when the fireflies hover around our face, portending nature’s halo, satisfaction beats through our heart for having loved – a difficult task – one that makes us fret and worry, maybe even swear, but a task so fundamentally right, so fundamentally needing to be done, that satisfaction in nurturing it makes the angst well worth it. Feel it. My MOM gave that to me.

Eventually the air around our body cools and the soft cooing of mourning doves is replaced with the creaking of crickets. Rolling out from under our tree, content that the roots are strong and the limbs ready to produce more seeds to carry on the legacy, we ready our self for sweet dreams that, the next day, we will feel motivated to realize – the only way we know how: through hard work and love. Can you feel it? This, my offering to you…

By Amanda L. Carter
 * Because of Freedom**

In college, I read many books that touched my heart – with a cold, deadening despair. I can remember thinking “These books are all hopeless! If they’re a true reflection of life, what’s the point?” Then I happened to pick up John Steinbeck’s East of Eden. It, too, includes more than its fair share of unhappiness…yet, to this day, I consider it one of the most hopeful books I have ever read. Unlike other authors, Steinbeck had the audacity to suggest that human beings can choose their fate in spite of their past or the world around them. In the novel, Steinbeck references two words from the Old Testament to carry this theme: “Thou mayest.” These two words capture my life’s purpose and hope: freedom.

I revel in the responsibility freedom places in my hands. It empowers me, pushing me to make decisions that lead me to reach for and possibly exceed my potential. In Atlas Shrugged, a novel that has greatly influenced my life, Ayn Rand advises her reader to “Live and act within the limit of your knowledge and keep expanding it to the limit of your life.” I’ve devoted a significant amount of my time and energy to successfully completing three different degree programs in order to teach, reasoning that an education and profession would significantly enhance my life. These enhancements have pushed me into realms of intellectual freedom that, otherwise, I never would have known existed. I am more aware of the potential my life has to improve and more secure in my ability to make rational decisions that are in line with my individual needs and goals because of freedom.

Of course, fulfilling my needs and reaching my goals isn’t always easy: there are plenty of roadblocks inhibiting me from exploring opportunities. A couple weekends ago, I was standing in my brother’s kitchen thinking about my niece’s bedtime and found myself saying, “Baba, in a little while you’ll be just like Sleeping Beauty!” I couldn’t help but add, “Except of course for the whole Prince Charming having to save you thing – ‘cause, no matter what all those stodgy, old, white guys in charge say, you have the power to save yourself!” The implication in Sleeping Beauty is that she lacked power; what she lacked was the opportunity to discover it. Opportunity, a product of freedom, empowers me to think critically and feel strongly, opening me up to the possibility of “saving,” or, rather, changing me, my circumstances, and even the world.

Freedom is remarkable. It gives me the potential to accomplish great feats, to conceive astounding ideas, and to feel fiery emotions. It awards me the capacity to choose – to discern, evaluate, and analyze – as well as the potential to evolve. Freedom is my nourishment. I believe I can grow, change, and improve, reach new plains of understanding and achieve a greater appreciation for life and all it entails because I’m free.

Making My Self into a Literate Person By Jonette Shuja "What country do you come from?" asked my sociology teacher. "I’m having trouble understanding you when you speak." Wow, was I ever deflated! Here I was viewing myself as Miss Glamour and my teacher was having trouble understanding my English! Leaving my farming community at the age of eighteen, I had two semesters of college from a university near the sophisticated city of Dallas by the time I was nineteen. I felt that I had stepped up to an exciting world-renowned location when I moved to the Chicago suburbs and started my third semester of college. In my opinion, my teacher and I were as American as apple pie. He came from Houston and I came from rural Oklahoma, but that was the same neck of the woods when you are living in Chicago. His comment did make me reflect about adapting my speech so that people, who were not from my hometown, could understand me. My reflections took me back to Ken’s Drug where I worked during high school. Loretta, the owner, was perhaps the most cosmopolitan lady in a town of 1,500 sloppy English speakers. I remembered how she corrected herself one day when she used poor grammar in making a comment to me, a high school girl under her employment. Her speech was so important to her that she made corrections even to someone who was not her peer. I had observed her reading__ The Wall Street Journal__. It now clicked into my mind that Loretta had demonstrated something which would assist me: correct grammar should improve my communication abilities. My newly acquired father-in-law and I were getting to know each other. He spoke with proper, British English. He would often tease me that we Americans could really drawl out the

phrase, "The maaan waaas miiilking the cooow." While British speakers would just clip out, "The man was milking the cow." In writing letters to him, I had to improve my English and learn new vocabulary. Conveyance was a word he often used. I was sure that he meant convenience. A small argument ensued which he won. By the way, English was his second language, but it was my first language and I had made an illiterate mistake. My vocabulary needed some polishing up to enable me to appear educated in front of people from other countries as well as my own United States. Where does one learn to become an educated speaker and writer I wondered? The supermarket magazines displayed ways to lose weight and choose appropriate clothing. There were ways to improve makeup and finances. The magazine covers displayed nothing about improving communication skills. After much thought, I came to realize that reading would improve my speaking abilities; after all, authors seemed to be educated individuals who could, at least, get proper speech down on paper. Vocabulary seemed to be an author specialty. Going down memory lane, I could recall how Nancy Drew had helped to mold me into a more worldly young woman. Nancy had introduced me to cucumber sandwiches, a delicacy that I have not yet tried all these years later, but at least I will know what to serve at afternoon tea if I should ever serve afternoon tea. Dashing about in her blue roadster and solving mysteries could only be possible if Nancy were communicating with others. She was admired by old and young alike. Nancy was left behind when I entered junior high. What other books would improve my reading, writing, and speaking abilities? Reminiscing to when I was about ten years old, I recalled a few days in which I was too sick to go to school. I had to stay in bed, but I was getting bored with nothing to keep my mind occupied. My dad brought home some books from the library. Dad was not a book reader himself, and that might have been the only time he made a visit to the library, making the memory all the more cherished. The places I visited in those books that Dad brought me caused a longing in me that only more learning could extinguish. Luckily, Dad had visited the library on a Wednesday because that was the only day it was open in our small town. Not knowing how to look for books, he sought help from the librarian. The librarian sent her selection for my age group. I would not have chosen these books for myself, but I was greatly influenced by them.

Still musing, I recalled my first semester of college, at that university near Dallas. I needed books, so I ventured into the library to be greeted by, not a few shelves of books like I was familiar with, but stacks, and stacks, and stacks. I felt intimidated. I sought out a librarian who quickly explained the Dewey Decimal System to me. Even with that, it took great courage to enter those mysterious stacks of books. I can still hear my footsteps echoing in the silence. But I found my selection and valued it highly, since it had been so difficult to come by. I revered the words that came forth from the pages. I read about the life of world-famous fashion designer Coco Chanel. From that time forward, I could navigate any library that I had the pleasure to visit. If a force in the fashion industry was the result of my first visit to a university library, then what else might I discover as I visited other libraries? Those discoveries would allow me to learn about other world respected individuals. Venturing to many different libraries, I made discoveries that turned me into a lifelong learner. Knowledge from books led to better communication of the written word. To write letters, especially to my father-in-law, I would ponder what message I was sending to the reader. Did they understand what I was trying to impart to them? Did I appear sad when I was really happy? Were my words clear and distinct, or did my grammar, spelling, and punctuation cause miscommunication? From the pages of the books I read, I began to apply these words and manners to the way I spoke. It gave me confidence as well. I was now attending a university with students from the Chicago area. I could hold my own with my more sophisticated peers, knowing that whatever came out of my mouth would be well articulated. After decades, I received the highest honors from my father-in-law commenting on my written English: "With such few words, you make anything easy to understand." He still wonders about my drawling when I speak. After all, I am American, so I must hold on to my special way of speaking English.. It peeved me once to hear a friend say, "I don’t need to read anything to make improvements, I have a college education." My feelings are that a college degree did not make me literate. I can never read or write enough. My in-depth study of the English language made me literate. No one can ever imply to me again that English is not my native language.__

__**Yes, This I Believe**__
__by Tom Leahy

I know what I believe but I don’t know why this developed. I do know this, I believe in people who show that they care about others. I believe that God does judge people, but not because they are Gay, Black, Asian, Jewish, Muslim or Native American. He judges how we treat people who are different than us. People we are afraid of. That’s the judgment. I believe in Mankind. I wonder why? I’ve lived with them for half a century. They have hurt me and my kind so very badly. Powerful words of anger meant to hurt were yelled at a loved one today. A child was abused today, a woman was raped today. A man was humiliated and tortured today. A child was embarrassed today. A teacher was mean today. A student was disrespectful today. Some teenage girls beat up a girl for no reason today. Some bullies kicked and humiliated a littler boy today. A man was mad about work and kicked his dog today. A driver cut off another before work today. He said, “I hate you” today. She said, “I hate you, too” today. A store was robbed today. A boss was rude to his worker today. A husband left his wife today. A child was left alone today. You and I didn’t care today. A 10 year old watched a violent movie with no empathy today. Mom didn’t care today. Dad was not there today. A young boy said he hated his Dad today. An American soldier died today. A protest was held at another soldier’s funeral today. A policeman was killed today. An innocent man was put in jail today. A man threw a candy wrapper out his window today. Someone died today and no one cared. I believe in Mankind with every fiber in my soul today. The good in us all far outweighs the bad today. A baby was held tight today. He gave her a rose today. He said he was sorry and meant it today. She prayed for forgiveness today. A soldier gave comfort to his enemy today. A lonely old woman was visited today. He gave his wife flowers for no reason today. A wife smiled at her husband today. You and I cared today. Someone called their mom today. He said, “I love you” today. She said, “I love you, too” today. She donated food today. Beautiful music was heard today. She held his hand today. He walked today. A baby was born today. Thoughts of peace were felt today. Someone forgave today. Someone died and many cared today. A child was read to today. A dog was walked today. A family ate together today. A teenager said, “Thank you” today. A soldier was saved today. A soldier came home today. A driver was courteous today. The other driver waved and smiled today. A mother gave birth today. A father held a new born today. I believe in mankind for all of our complications. We are full of hate but we give out more love. We are full of despair but we are saved by our stronger hope. We fight wars but feed the hungry and clothe the poor. We hurt each other but care for each other more. We cause pain but help to heal. We survive because we don’t give up hope. I believe in mankind because I have a son, daughter and wife who care. Yes, this I believe.  _  __ **How I Became a Literate Being ** <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';"> <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">Frankly, I don’t remember my world without books. As a matter of fact, my earliest recollection at all involved me writing an imaginary letter to my father when I was three. He was in Korea for the war, and I was remembering fondly the bedtime stories he would read to me every night, looking forward to the day my mother and I would join him at Camp Zama, Japan, and he would read to me again every night. I have seen pictures of my mother reading to me from the same time frame, and I don’t remember a time I didn’t have as many picture books as toys. My grandmothers both read to me, too, and I still treasure the bedtime story anthologies they gave me. In first grade, I loved the magical giant picture books my teacher used for whole-class reading. Dick and Jane became as near and dear to me as the brother and sister I never had. I loved their antics, the stereo-typical ‘50s family, and the family pets, Spot the dog and Puff the cat, as if they were my own. An only child, I was intensely jealous that they had each other, and a sister, Baby Sally, as well. Perhaps that was my first inkling that life would not always be fair.

However, something happened between the //Adventures of Dick, Jane, and Sally// in first grade books and whatever their further adventures may have been in second grade. The words became more complicated and didn’t always rhyme to help me out deciphering the code. To add insult to injury, the letters themselves began to jump around the page, and didn’t always resemble normal words at all. My highly perceptive third grade teacher dutifully informed me, not just that I was a horrid reader, but that probably in all likelihood I should never learn to read at all! The really sad thing was, I actually believed her for many years.

Then in fifth grade, a remarkable thing happened. I saw a movie, the Disney classic //Sleeping Beauty//; someone gave me the comic book version, and I devoured it. I found all sorts of other fairy tales and classics transformed comic book style, and I could not get enough of them. Not only that, but I found out some of my favorite classic movies were screenplays of famous novels, too! What a concept! We read excerpts from //Tom Sawyer// and //Huckleberry Finn// in our textbook readers, which inspired me to check out the original volumes from the library and read them both. My teacher read to us every day, classics like //Caddie Woodlawn//, stories of a prairie girl not unlike the //Little House// series. In sixth grade, I continued my penchant for biographies of successful women from Sarah Bernhardt and Queen Elizabeth I to Susan Blackwell, the first woman surgeon.

About this time, my mother went back to college, and sometimes I went along with her. I was enthralled with her fine arts and music classes, and the readings from her philosophy books. Perhaps more for my benefit than her own, she enrolled us both in an Evelyn Woods speed-reading program. I was astonished when my scores came back; it seems that not only was my third grade reading teacher entirely wrong, but I was in eighth grade reading at college level!

The more short stories and poetry I read in high school, the more I loved my literature classes. I started writing a novel when I was fourteen. Nothing publishable, just my own version of our favorite TV shows. I still remember amazing my friends, one chapter at a time, with my laboriously hand-written pages, complete with illustrations. I had over three hundred of them in my three-ring binder set aside for that particular purpose. It didn’t matter whether it was a book report, a research paper or a creative prompt, I was hooked! I loved writing, and I often imagined myself in some New England hideaway not too far from Thoreau and Emerson on Walden Pond, in a huge stone farmhouse with a fireplace and a big red barn, surrounded by nature and animals, both wild and domestic. I even tortured myself through two semesters of typing class so I could produce “professional-looking” manuscripts. The highlight of my academic career was the remark from my first college English professor who said I should be studying at an Ivy League school.

I became a teacher in part to make amends to other children badly labeled by any teacher who did not inspire them to do their best-- and in part to share my enthusiasm for education in general--and literacy in particular. Travelling around the world as I did growing up, it was amazing to me how other cultures do not take literacy for granted. They treasure it! They develop not only native communication skills, but seek to speak and write fluently in several other languages as well. One of my preservice mentors used a particular book to inspire love of reading in her students. About an African American slave determined to learn how to read, the setting was a time when learning to read by a slave was a crime punishable by amputation, one finger for each time the slave was caught. Literacy is such a treasured gift; like love and friendship, the more I share with others, the more I have to share.

Lynda Wasser __

<span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;">` <span style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128); font-family: Georgia,serif;"> Middle School Bloopers
<span style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);"><span style="font-family: Georgia,serif;">by Sandy Foster

Middle school students have been described in many ways: 'tweens,, bullies, class clowns, and drama queens, to name a few. But after teaching in middle school for twenty-five years, I believe the most apt descriptor is comedians. Downright funny, they are. When you let down your guard and show them you dispel the old myth that a teacher should never smile before Christmas, they revel in making each other - and the teacher - laugh. Humor has a way of releasing pent-up energy, something middle school students have in great abundance. With the increase stress today's students are under, I believe humor helps to relax them, especially during those high-stakes testing weeks. If you can help them find something light-hearted to share a giggle, they will be in a much better frame of mind to focus and to test. There is a fine line, however, between having an enjoyable moment and being able to move on, or rendering the class out of control for the remainder of the period. The difference is in how you set the tone for your classroom in the first few weeks of school, so students know your limits. Middle school-ers laugh at a range of squirrely behavior. Of course, to middle school boys, bodily noises emit the most laughter. Even if those noises merely imitate the real thing, snickers and giggles must occasionally be quashed. One student in my class found he could elicit laughter from his cronies by demonstrating his flatulence. I had spoken to him privately about it, I had sent him to the hallway, and I had given him a detention. None of those punishments brought as much attention as the positive reinforcement of laughter until I marched him to the phone and called his mom as he stood silently listening to my end of the conversation. After introducing myself and telling her I was calling in reference to some inappropriate behavior, I said, "I just wanted to clear the air, so to speak…" That ended his inappropriate behavior for the remainder of that school year. During my first year of teaching, Brian disrupted class daily. Rather than send him to the office on a regular basis, I had developed a plan that after two warnings, he would move his desk to my large, roomy closet for the remainder of the class period. While he was in the closet one day, the rest of the class continued with our discussion, but we kept hearing voices from the closet. I casually strolled over and leaned against the shut closet door. I couldn't quite make out what Brian was saying, but it seemed he was talking to himself. I motioned for my students to get quiet, and I pulled the door open, revealing Brian with a checkers game on his desk. He had set it up as if playing an opponent, and was carrying on a conversation with this invisible friend. Students are always ready to laugh at the teacher's expense. Over the years, I have provided much fodder for their amusement, but more importantly, they have taught me to laugh at myself. Every fashion faux pas becomes a target for their laughter. One day I couldn't determine why my students were acting so antsy, whispering uncontrollably back and forth. Finally, I asked my fourth hour students just what was the deal, anyway. "Well, what's up with the shoes, Mrs. Foster?" I looked down to find two different shoes, one black and one blue. I smiled sheepishly and replied, "I have another pair just like these at home.” Another day I stood in front of my seventh hour class only to have one of the girls sidle up next to me and whisper that my pants were unzipped. I cringed with the knowledge that it must have been that way since lunch when I had gone to the restroom. Feigning exaggerated drama, I gasped in horror, whirled around, zipped up, and faced the class again, screeching, "And you're just now telling me this?" When a fashion-conscious student said, "Mrs. Foster, I don't mean this in a bad way, but that dress makes you look fat," the rest of the class gaped at her audacity while I merely smiled and said, "I guess if the shoe fits, as they say…because obviously the dress doesn't." Everyone laughed and relaxed, but that student realized she had made a social blunder. And she learned it from her peers, not from a lecture. Not only do students find humor in teacher's mistakes, but in their own, as well. The superintendent's son once turned in a descriptive essay about his best friend. I returned to school after having edited the papers, awaiting his class with glee. I wanted to see the reaction on his face when he read my marginal notes before revising. One of his sentences described his friend's brown shirt; however, he had hurriedly scribbled the paper to turn it in and had left the "r" out of the word "shirt". I underlined the misspelled word, and in the margin, I had penned, "Most of it is brown, but I see no connection to what he was wearing." We both laughed as he realized what he had written and that I would not punish him for using an inappropriate word. Another benefit of laughter is its healing powers. Our physical education teacher had been receiving treatment for cancer, and upon returning to school, she wore a wig. The students knew what she had been going through and were very understanding, albeit more than a little concerned for her. For many of them, this was their first experience with cancer. After a day or two in the hot gymnasium, Mrs. P. addressed her class, and said, "I hope you guys don't mind, but this wig is hot and makes my head itch. If it doesn't bother you, I'm not going to wear it," and without waiting for a response, she whipped that wig off her bald head and tossed it into the bleachers. When one of our students began treatments for the same disease and lost all of her hair, the two of them compared hair length every day as it grew back in. The following year when Mrs. P. lost her life to cancer, the students reminisced, taking comfort in their memories, one of which was the day she tossed her hair into the bleachers. If you can't use humor to defuse a situation, or if you can't laugh at your own mistakes, then middle school is not the place for you, because these students' moods can vacillate from one minute to the next, and humor is the equalizer. It allows them to see you as human at the same time it helps them learn to shrug off those daily situations that are only traumatic if you allow them to be. I may be six or eight years from retirement age, but I'll remain a middle-school-er at heart forever.

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: Georgia,serif;">**<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">This I Believe…. ** <span style="display: block; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif';">As a teenager in the sixties, I was definitely a misfit in the generation of love-ins, acid rock, and women’s liberation. I was an only child, one that my mother was never supposed to have conceived in the first place. I am here because her Catholic doctor refused to do an abortion, even though another doctor was sure she could never survive childbirth. She survived quite nicely actually and loved to tell the story. She took me everywhere she went, despite the fact that she confessed she had never wanted to be pregnant and resented me the entire time she was. All that changed when they put me in her arms, even after a full week of labor. I never wanted anything more than to become a housewife, just like her—except, of course, with a houseful of kids. I soon found myself happily married with the first three of my five children healthy and happy, and the fourth on the way. But while I was waiting for my first prenatal visit, I was exposed to German measles. My doctor flatly told me I would need a blood test to determine whether or not I had been infected and to be ready to schedule my abortion as soon as possible. “My **//what--//**?” My mind was reeling at the possibility of German measles alone. What would that do to my baby? Abortion was certainly not a word foreign to my vocabulary barely a decade beyond //Roe v. Wade,// but it was never an option for me. I was in shock. It was no longer just a topic for idle conversations; I had to stand up for my beliefs. I prayed. The deepest strongest conviction of my heart and soul was right. This baby was a human being. I might bring him into the world, but only God could give him life. The blood test results were negative so I had dodged the bullet. He was born a beautiful, healthy, perfect baby boy, which confirmed my faith that I had made the right choice. After my fifth child, it was time to stop. My nurse sobbed as she assisted in the surgery. She could not have children, and here I was with five. My oldest son and his wife lost their first child, Diana, stillborn after six months. She was just like the porcelain baby doll I had treasured as a child, perfect in every detail. I could not let her go without holding her delicate Dresden form in my hands to say goodbye. My youngest son and his wife also had their fertility problems. They were delighted to get pregnant again so quickly—and amazed to find out they would be having twins! I think of Diana my Dresden doll whenever I hold Ashlyn and Aleya, my double portion. My children and my grandchildren are my jewels, my priceless gems, as the Psalmist wrote, my “heritage from the Lord.”

Lynda Wasser

<span style="color: rgb(192, 192, 192); font-family: Georgia,serif;"> This I Believe Patrick Kennedy I believe that Mick Jagger was right when he said, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime you might find you get what you need.” I became familiar with the idea one night driving home with my father when I was about nine years old. The song was playing on the radio and as the chorus sounded, dad turned down the radio a bit. “You know God works in funny ways sometimes,” he said. I hadn’t been paying attention and had to ask what he meant. Dad repeated the chorus to me and then said, “You’ll live a better life if you can understand what he’s saying.” That put the idea in my head, but I wouldn’t truly understand it until years later. Growing up, my life revolved around sports. I collected baseball, basketball, and football cards, a collection which grew to well over ten-thousand. In the summer, I played baseball and I pitched, played shortstop, third base, left field, and centerfield, all positions of my heroes such as George Brett, Ken Griffey Jr., Ozzie Smith, Nolan Ryan, and Kenny Lofton. In the winter I played basketball mostly because I adored Michael Jordan, which also explains my love of McDonald’s, Wheaties, Nike, and Gatorade among other things. Basketball became a sport I took more and more interest in as I got closer to being able to dunk, a feat I accomplished in my sophomore year of high school. However, the accomplishment was minimal at best because for all the work I was putting in; I was only seeing court from the sideline come game time. Going into my junior year, I was almost certain I would be cut from the junior varsity squad and never play basketball again. To my surprise, I made the team and took a solemn vow that things would be different this year. I just didn’t understand how that would materialize. During the first few weeks of practice, I was constantly put on the last squad as a final resort. No amount of hustle, determination, or volunteering seemed to make a difference in the matter. Though I was frustrated, I put it all aside when the first game rolled around and let my excitement run rampant for the season’s opener. My fears were seemingly relieved when I played about half of the game, scored a bucket, grabbed some rebounds, and issued some assists. After that night, I really thought things were turning around. Although practice would follow the same routine, the real blow came the following week at our next game. Playing one of our fiercest rivals, it was clear that the pace would be grueling and exhausting for everyone involved. I watched the first quarter from the bench as our opponents started to build a sizeable lead. Coach never called me into the game, but I remained vigilant. “Lean forward while you’re on the bench,” my father always told me, “the coach can see you easier that way.” I was almost falling out of my chair I was so far forward, but half-time came and I had not played. I listened listlessly to the halftime talk, and then joined my teammates in the lay-up line. I cheered them on as we went through, trying to keep their spirits up. Down by more than fifteen, I knew we still had a chance, but it would take some doing. I looked around and noticed that out of the twelve of us standing around, I was the only one still wearing his warm-up shirt. Normally, it was removed the first time a player entered the game. My friend Dan took one look at me and said, “Take that off.” “Why?” I asked, “I haven’t played yet.” He rolled his eyes at me then took off for his turn in the lay-up line. When we came back to the bench, he motioned to me again to take off the warm-up. Reluctantly, I did so, then took my oh-so-familiar spot on the bench. The third quarter rolled on, and my position remained the same. I watched as everyone else entered the game, even players younger but not better than I which I took to be the final straw. In the fourth quarter, I watched the time tick away. “If that clock hits four minutes left and I haven’t gotten in the game,” I told my teammate Brett, “I’m walking off the court and quitting.” “Come on, man,” he said, “Don’t do that.” From his point of view, it had only been one game where this had happened. But I looked back over the last two years and relived similar situations where I was used sparingly at most. It wasn’t that coach didn’t see me; he knew that I was there on the bench. He just ignored me thinking I wasn’t good enough. The fact that my coach this year was the same one from last year pointed towards a good possibility of that happening again. I looked back on the long practices and assured myself, I didn’t want another four months of that. Helplessly, I watched as the clock ticked to 4:00 minutes. One last look at the coach and then I stood up off the bench. My mother, father, and friends would later tell me that they knew exactly what I was doing and were never more proud of me than at that moment. I walked out of the gym, down to the locker room, cleaned out my gear, and left everything in a pile on a bench. The head coach of the program came and tried to stop me, but my mind was made up. When my father entered the locker room to give the coach a piece of his mind, the deal was sealed. That night I cried for hours and hours. I still loved the game of basketball but had long since realized that what I was doing at school wasn’t basketball anymore. Somewhere along the way, the innocence of the game had disappeared, and it became more like a job. I was too young for that to happen. In my frustration and anger about the situation, I needed something to do. Something that would calm me, something that would ease the pain, so one day I picked up a pen and started writing. I wrote about nothing in particular; one day a story, one day a poem, one day just the rant of a scorned young man. Eventually I came back to that thing my father told me from a Rolling Stones’ song that just happened to be playing on the radio, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime you might find you get what you need.” I wanted to be a basketball player; I needed to be a writer.

<span style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);"> Rod Valdez This I Believe Wednesday June 17, 2009

I believe in giving. And I believe that the givers are always given to in return.

Without a doubt, I had a blessed basketball career growing up. When I was nine years old, I was matched up with my “Big Brother” through a program to help single parent households find mentors for their children. My Big Brother signed me up to play in my first organized basketball league. Basketball became the one constant in my life for several reasons.

Growing up in a very modest environment, entertainment options were limited. Fortunately for me, there was a basketball goal attached to a light pole in the church parking lot down the street from the apartment complex where we lived. Basketball was also an important option for me during recess at school. In short, basketball is a universal sport that allows many opportunities to anyone who wants to pick up the ball and take a chance. Basketball kept me out of trouble, kept me in school and was my ticket to college.

After my first two years of Biddy Basketball, the league in which I played, I had worked my way up to the top division. When I was twelve years old, I was introduced to Tom Staats, my first mentor of the game and a coach known for his ability to produce powerful teams. During our first visit, Coach Staats asked me if I’d be interested in practicing with his team. The feeling that I had at that moment is indescribable; the most popular coach in the league was interested in me.

Coach Staats had won National Championships and produced many All Star players as a Biddy coach. During my initial practices with the team, I can remember Coach Staats showing me little tricks that would allow me to beat my defender. He told me that I had a pure jump shot. However, I needed to learn how to improve the use of my jump shot to not only make myself a better player, but to improve the quality of the team. Then the game would be very easy for me.

Once the season began, our team worked like a machine. We had an undefeated season, and four players, including myself, were selected as Biddy All Stars. The All Stars were scheduled that year to travel to New York and play teams from all around the United States and the world, including Puerto Rico and Finland. There was only one problem for a kid who lived in a single parent household with four younger siblings: the trip would cost $150.00.

I knew without even asking that my mom did not have this kind of money. The time had come for me to call Coach Staats and tell him the hardest thing any twelve- year old athlete would ever have to reveal. I told him I could not make the trip because we couldn’t afford it. The tears fell like a waterfall spilling over the edge of a cliff; I could barely talk clear enough for coach to hear me. When he finally understood what I was saying, he chuckled in a way that I will never forget. It wasn’t a ridiculing laugh but a comforting sort of chuckle that made my fears disappear. Then he said he had figured my mother couldn’t afford to pay the fees for the trip and that he had already arranged with my mother a list of duties I would perform to satisfy the debt.

Since it was wintertime, I could not fulfill my end of the deal until summer. That year, the twelve-year old Biddy Basketball team from Wichita, Kansas, went on to beat the Puerto Ricans in triple overtime to win the National Biddy Championship. The experience of a lifetime, something I will cherish forever, an opportunity that would have never been possible had it not been for Coach Tom Staats and his kind heart. Once school was out for the summer, I began immediately helping Coach Staats paint his house, deliver for Meals on Wheels, and mow lawns on several properties.

I have been fortunate throughout my life to have great mentors. People, who in my opinion, have filled nearly every void in my life. Today, I am a 41- year old professional educator of 10 years, and I believe that Tom Staats instilled in me the foundation that I have as a basketball coach at the high school level. I have been fortunate to be involved in coaching for as long as I have been teaching. Anyone who knows me understands how passionate I am about the game. I am inspired annually by a group of young men that give me their heart and soul for an entire basketball season. I believe I have come full circle with my basketball career and because a coach gave to me, I indirectly give back to him when I lead my troops on to the court. A quote is posted in a frame, hanging in a hallway in my house: “He who gives to me, teaches me to give.” _

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